


Protected

by swordliliesandebony



Series: DA Kinkmeme Fills [2]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: 5+1 Things, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-23
Updated: 2016-06-23
Packaged: 2018-07-16 19:18:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7281379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swordliliesandebony/pseuds/swordliliesandebony
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Anders was protected without knowing it, and one time he found out. (Fill for kinkmeme prompt)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Protected

**I**

Irving watched the boy sulk from his study, feeling no small measure of remorse; twelve years old, all skinned knees and muddy clothes, and for all the wrong reasons. He might not have punished him at all- certainly wouldn't have- if Greagoir hadn't seen fit to supervise the meeting. He felt deflated, defeated and the sigh he released carried the sentiment. The Circle could be a frightening place for the best of them; it rarely felt like a child stood any real chance.

"You're too soft," the Knight Commander said aloud what his stiff stature, stern face had spoken through the short disciplinary hearing. How often had the two butted heads over such a concern? Irving couldn't count the arguments if he tried. Still, somehow, Greagoir was something of a friend; as much a friend as any templar could be to a mage, to his ward, he suspected. And with this friendship in mind, weak and conditional as it may be, guilt settled double-sided in his chest.

"He's a child," Irvine ran fingers over the parchment before him, shuffled some pages, did what he could to avoid looking at Greagoir, "One who was surrendered by his parents. It's only natural that he requires time to adjust," now he adjusted the inkwell, then the sealing wax. Anything to keep his hands busy, his gaze focused. It was possible, probable even, that Greagoir had a point, broadly speaking. Certain behaviors couldn't be tolerated, needed to be quashed before they became habit. This, though? This was a scared boy trying to go home. An escape attempt at this stage was all but expected.

"He needs to learn the rules," there was a particular noise Greagoir's armor made when he crossed his arms. It was metallic and overly loud in a relatively sparse room, and to most mages in the tower, it rang with danger. Even the First Enchanter, from time to time, felt the familiar panicked response. Mages didn't have many advantages here. He had learned a lifetime ago that being sharp-eared and silent were their greatest, "polishing armor isn't going to teach him anything."

"And what is it you propose? A few weeks in the undercroft? A thorough lashing? I'd wager he'll get his share of it all before you're through," Irving's voice rose with each suggestion, and he couldn't pretend he wasn't pleased to see the way Greagoir's face twisted in response, "Everyone makes mistakes when they're young, Knight Commander. Even you, as I recall," it was deadly aim taken with words- the weapons Irving always did prefer. He managed to strike his opponent, make a critical blow. Greagoir turned for the door, eyes narrowed, fists clanging and crunching shut.

"You can't protect him forever. It will ruin the boy," Greagoir stopped in the doorway, steel hand on the frame, "it could ruin us all."

Irving felt confident in taking the risk.

 

* * *

 

  
**II**

The bruise had spread since Karl last examined it. Dark and angry, it dominated his abdomen in blues and yellows and waves of pain danced across when Anders' fingers brushed so lightly over it. Ideally, he would have foregone healing, perhaps even avoided Anders until the color and the ache faded. Ideally, he wouldn't have taken the hit at all. But his throat burnt with copper when he vomited and caution won out over pride. And he was never any good with healing.

"How the hell did this happen?" Really, he mostly wished Anders would save the questions until the spells had been worked; the wincing and grunting he responded with seemed to convey the thought well enough, as a wave of cool relief followed. Beyond the simple physical desire for delay, this bought him some time. Karl hadn't gotten as far as formulating an excuse just yet and the truth was off the table.

The truth involved a favorite spot behind some bookcases, stilted breathing and hot flesh and frantic touches between guards changing. It involved sending Anders a roundabout way back to his shared quarters when Karl realized they had lingered in an embrace too long; creating a diversion, hair still plastered with sweat, robes still smelling of sex. It ended with a lie, the name of a partner who never existed (not that the Templars ever bothered to remember names), and a few swift pounds of steel to the gut. It kept Anders safe. Anders didn't need to know.

"How does it always happen?" Karl didn't speak until the pain had subsided, until he had an arm around Anders waist and felt the slight man's breathing return to normal, the strain of the spell subside. Anders still wasn't relaxed, not quite. There was tension through his body and a warmth that erred closer to anger than it did arousal. For the best, probably; however skilled Anders happened to be with healing, Karl would be feeling the hit for another day at least.

"Who was it? That new one that transferred in, I bet. With the smell," Anders wrinkled his nose as if the mere mention brought with it a stench that many of the mages had become all too familiar with. Karl sighed his response and shook his head, then leaned it against Anders' shoulder. The less they spoke of it, the sooner they could change the subject, the better. He didn't regret the encounter- he would do anything he could to protect him. But he didn't want to say it, didn't want to burden him with guilt, didn't want the idea to so much as cross his mind.

"Forget it. If I name names, you'll only get the same. I know your temper," he smiled, let his voice go playful and leaned to nip at Anders' ear, "you've got me all patched up now. No need to worry. Was just a bit sore anyway," Anders had opened his mouth to protest; there was no mistaking the damage done, particularly when he was mending it. Karl intercepted the words with a kiss, one that lingered and wished to deepen. When they parted, he brushed at Anders' loose fringe, gave his best reassuring smile. Anders, reluctant to recant his pout, finally mirrored it.

That was worth protecting.

 

* * *

 

**III**

"How many Templars has he killed? How many, even before you pardoned him?"

"I didn't ask," The Warden Commander- former Warden Commander's expression twisted. Her time could be better spent just about anywhere and Knight Captain Whatever-His-Name-Is damn well knew it.

"He's become a monster. An abomination!" He spat when he spoke. She wasn't surprised. He looked the type.

"So I've been told," she wasn't sure how better to display her disinterest in the whole affair. She was done with this, aiming to leave the Keep again just as soon as this final bit of business was wrapped up. She'd only meant to return briefly, chasing a lead that wound up a dead end. She shouldn't have been surprised when she was bombarded with pleas and complaints rather than information.

"The Right of Conscription doesn't apply here. It shouldn't have applied in the first place!" And his breath stank. Was her expression giving off anything but disgust? Anything else would be both accidental and misleading.

"I didn't realize you were an expert on the Wardens," She leaned back in the seat, folded her hands behind her head while she watched him seethe. Nuisance though it was, there was something particularly sweet that came with this position. Thinking back to her time in the Circle, the current scene was a dream come to life. Never could she have imagined a Templar pleading with her.

"I'm an expert on the danger of mages," he had leaned in, enough that a guard lifted his sword slowly to the threat. This was enough to inch him back, if not far enough to mask the stench.

"And you're coming to one for help. Fancy that," It was impossible not to be smug. She had slain an archdemon; done so and survived. She deserved this. Toying with a templar and protecting a man- rumored not to be a man any more, not that she fully believed it- who she counted close amongst her friends. She could take some small pleasure in this diversion.

"A mage should know better than anyone what this means,"

"If it's true," she she unfolded her arms, sat forward, "and let me be as frank with you as i can, you've not done much to convince me. But if it's true, what do you expect me to do about it? He's not under my command now. It's really not my concern," and truthfully, she was curious. All that she knew about her replacement hinted at full cooperation on the matter. Why go to the old boss when the new was on your side?

"Nobody here knows where he's gone," the reply came through gritted yellow teeth, with a tone of resignation, "if you have any information, it could save lives."

And would certainly end his. Knight Captain didn't need to say that part, she knew it well enough. She knew Anders well enough, too. She knew he was scared, hurt, starved years for freedom. She had known him in happier times, maybe not as well, but knew his face and saw the same as he behind those walls. And she knew where he was headed, who he was after. She'd read the letter until the important bits were seared into memory, the parchment itself long set to ash.

"Well," she feigned resignation, even offered a heavy sigh as she stood, "if that's the case," she was an expert liar in her day. Whether the skill remained was hard to say.

"I believe he's headed for Orlais. Some sympathizers out that way taking him in, or so I'd heard," she held her breath a fraction of a second, searched his face. He seemed pleased. Unbelievable.

"Your assistance is appreciated, Warden Commander. Thank you," maybe he hadn't gotten the memo. He still bowed and still stank and still looked disgustingly pleased with himself.

"Anything to save a life."

 

* * *

 

**IV**

Anders was a good man.

Lirene believed this about him, above any rumors that might have been circulating. He was a man with a past, she would give them that. The past stretched to Ferelden, to the big tower in the lake. It snaked through the Grey Wardens, even brushed against the Hero of Ferelden herself. That was as Anders had divulged himself, and as much as she knew with any certainty. His past didn't matter much to her, regardless. She'd made a name for herself here in Kirkwall just the same way he had- providing help to the people who needed her most. She fancied herself a good woman for it. And for protecting him.

He had come to her the same as many. He needed a place to stay, some food, maybe clothing a bit less tattered. She had, to the best she could, provided. He offered more coin than was customary for the situation, given that none had been her going rate. More importantly, most importantly, he offered assistance. Anders had helped where he could around her shop. He'd emptied his purse in her donation box, gathered herbs that could quiet the lingering sick from the ships. He'd prepared meals and beds and more than once given up his own. And he healed.

Maker, had they needed a healer.

And Lirene knew, she knew as well as any of them what he was. Only a mage could cure those so ill and so injured as he had. Only magic would ease those beyond saving into a relatively comfortable oblivion. Never mind what the Chantry or the Templars had to say. He was a good man who used his gift or his curse or whatever they said it was for good things. So she suggested he set up the clinic. He would do more good in a space of his own, with some cots and some privacy. She'd scoured her connections to find him a space, dipped into those donations (still mostly his own coin, anyway) to secure it for him. And she sent those who needed to him.

More importantly, she sent those who didn't away. She learned to hear armor on the Templars even when they didn't wear it. She became familiar with their faces and their manners, spent far more time around the Gallows than she ever would have liked. She did it so he wouldn't have to, so he wouldn't face whatever they had in mind. She never, of course, mentioned this to him. Anders had more important things to focus on. He had people to help, in a way others couldn't.

So she would risk her own business, the small comforts she could provide. She would challenge those who meant to harm, whoever's employ they happened to be under. It was dangerous; terrifying at times, exhilarating at others. Templars, assassins, thieves, and worse filtered through her doors. They feigned injury and illness and begged direction to the healer they'd heard of from a friend. She sent them away and barred the door with a stool the nights she had to. Anders was a good man. He did good things. And she would not let them take that away.

 

* * *

 

**V**

Blondie was a headache, that was for sure. A pain in the ass, too. And don't get him started on how it hurt his purse. But Varric kept the coin moving, and that kept the right men moving in the right places. That was about all he could do for the guy, sometimes more than he wanted. He didn't get it, not really. It wasn't the mage thing in and of itself. He knew plenty of mages. He even liked some of them. Hell, maybe he liked Blondie at times too, much as he denied it. It was the tortured, semi-crazed thing that caused all the problems.

Oh, and shacking up with spirits. That didn't help matters. Shit like that was what made him question Hawke's judgement.

Most importantly, somehow more importantly than the borderline-abomination thing, they needed him. Sure, they needed the maps, but he offered those up freely after the whole incident with that Tranquil. He was a hell of a healer, Varric had to give him that. That was the only way he could have survived so long without the coin moving, Varric decided. You didn't just run away from the Wardens. Or the Templars, for that matter. The guy had a knack for making himself useful, useful enough that the tirades and the questionable judgement and the whole Justice thing somehow became secondary.

And, of course, there was the thing with Broody. Varric hadn't quite managed to nail that down yet, but he was pretty sure neither of them had either. He'd caught the looks, the body language, the edge they forced at each other. It was going to make a bestseller, once he got around to writing it. The handsome elf with the tragic past, falling regretfully into the arms of an extremist mage; they hate each other, they bicker and hurl insults and build big shining emotional barriers until, even after they admit the attraction.

He kept the money moving, kept his mouth shut. He would make double in returns from that story.

 

* * *

 

**+I**

"What the hell happened!?"

It was a lot of blood, even by Anders' standards. And it was everywhere. It smeared across the door- the one Fenris had been left banging on far too long before he found response. It dripped and trailed on the floor as Anders supported, all but carried him to the closest cot. It spread and stained over breastplate and down legs, across arms and in streaks through stark white hair. It sent the breath out of Anders, nearly sent him entirely to pieces.

"Not really the time," Fenris was writhing the moment he hit the cot. Breaths came shallow and quick, eyes darted, unfocused. Anders had to focus, had to steady his mind and his hands. He had to find the source of the bleeding, preferably before Fenris lost consciousness. Or worse. It was just so much blood. Anders' eyes were burning while he fumbled with the armor. He wasn't good at this, he had no experience with all the straps and buckles and slotting. The crimson slick that coated so much didn't seem to help. He was panicking, and that wasn't helping either.

"You're bad at this," in the end, Fenris had to assist with the stripping, to the best of his ability. With the breastplate aside, the source injury presented itself plainly. He'd taken a sword at a horizontal swipe; one potent enough to have torn clean the leather below the plate itself. It seemed a miracle he hadn't been split in two. And that was the only miracle Anders could count, short of the fact that Fenris somehow managed to make his way to the clinic without bleeding out. He summoned up familiar energy, focused on a wound that could easily have been fatal.

It was exhausting, in every sense of the word. His mind was spinning, hands trembling even before his reserves began to waver. He was tripping over himself, over thoughts of what damage might have been done that he couldn't see, how to best to mend what he could. He was near tears, reaching for the lyrium, trying to rouse Fenris out of the silence he had fallen into shortly after the healing began. That wasn't a good sign. Any time Fenris wasn't snapping some insult or offering up one of his disgusted grunts, it wasn't a good sign. Anders could feel his own breath quickening, the warning, numbing sensation beginning at the back of his neck, rolling over his shoulders. He swallowed, paused, tried to assess what he had managed.

The bleeding had ceased, the wound shut, at least for the moment. It wasn't pretty, and should Fenris move too much, it probably wouldn't hold. Anders moved his hand, shaking worse than before, pressed it to the center of his slight, stained chest. Fenris' breathing had evened out and his heart thrummed a steady, strong rhythm beneath Anders' palm. He lingered there a moment, even after a breath of relief passed through his lips. He was alive, he was surviving this. It surprised Anders precisely how relieved he felt, how terrified he had been in the uncertainty. It didn't help his nerves.

Fenris didn't stir until Anders had nearly finished cleaning away the now-drying blood. The sight was still making him queasy, his vision swimming enough from that and the exhaustion that Anders didn't immediately take not of the fact. He found himself, quite unwittingly, taking more note of the body he tended to. It sent blood rushing to his cheeks, the absurdity of noticing an elegant curve here or an old scar there. There was an undercurrent of shame, how relieved he was that the blood wasn't rushing entirely elsewhere.

"Bastard had some friends," Anders nearly jumped from his skin at the sound of Fenris speaking. His head jerked up, mouth slightly ajar. He felt as a child, caught doing something entirely naughty. Maybe he had been.

"I'm sorry?" Fenris rolled his eyes at the response.

"The one who did this. I could tell he was up to something. Didn't expect an ambush- hey, easy!" he hissed when Anders began wrapping the bandages.

"Right, of course," Anders tried to shake his head, to clear it of whatever thoughts had been forming. He hated himself for them, whatever they were. Pretending he didn't know was definitely the best route, "it was pretty nasty," even his voice still hadn't steadied. He attempted a few deep breaths before speaking again, "I'm surprised you were even able to make it here."

"I wasn't far," Fenris was following Anders' hands with his eyes. After a light scolding, he had managed to stay relatively still for the bandaging process. Still, he said words under his breath that, while Anders couldn't translate, he could understand as none too pleasant.

"What would posess you to spend an evening in Darktown alone?" Anders had snapped a bit harder than he intended, pulled the last wrap of bandage a little too tightly, "Don't you know how dangerous it gets?"

"I'm aware," tone cold as ice, eyes narrowed, "that's why I was here."

"I'm sorry, what?" Anders was sure he couldn't be more confused. His brows knitted, head tilted. Hawke, he might have expected it from; that sort of self-destructive adventure-seeking seemed right up his alley. Fenris was a different story, one that he couldn't quite read.

"Not everyone who comes here is looking for help," he laid back in the cot when Anders finally finished the bandages, pulled forearm over his eyes as if there were some bright light to shield from, "word spreads. I was just making sure things were okay."

"You were...protecting me?" Anders couldn't help but ask for confirmation. His relationship with Fenris barely seemed to even constitute friendship. Sure, Anders enjoyed the view. He even ached, hearing the snips of his past. And he could admit to sharing a laugh, even when he tried his damnedest not to. But that was him, Anders, not Fenris. He couldn't quite picture the elf giving a damn whether he lived or died; he might have guessed Fenris would really prefer the latter.

"Don't read so much into it," he still wasn't looking, thank the Maker. Anders cheeks were warm with color again, his heart quick against his ribs, "I'm not about to let you be slaughtered in your own home."

"Doesn't sound like you. How much blood did you lose?" It was enough to get Fenris to crack a smile, something that pleased Anders in a way it absolutely shouldn't. 


End file.
